


you will reap a whirlwind

by asemic



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liebgott in memories and in action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you will reap a whirlwind

**Author's Note:**

> Relies on the program's assertion that Liebgott is Jewish. Many thanks to delgaserasca for the beta and German.

_He remembers._

His grandmother’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders as she hugged him. He was too tall for her breasts to press into his cheek, for the soft cloying scent of her lavender satchel to tickle his nose. He was too old for her to kiss the fears of the day away. 

I know what you will do, Joe. You made your choice before you felt it. 

They were in his room, away from the radio blaring reports about Pearl. He had dropped his keys on his bed when she entered, her face pale and eyes sunken. Joe didn’t hesitate when she opened her arms, slipped into her embrace as she breathed heavy.

If you fall, think of your oma. Think of your oma and she’ll catch you. 

The light turns green as the plane rocks against flak and tracers. Joe reaches the door and drops into the dark. Smelling lavender he braces himself for the landing.

_He remembers._

She was pretty. Warm, soft. Italian with an Italian nose and thick Italian hair. 

She’s not a Jew, his mother balked out the window at him, her arms moving in exasperation. 

Scream it louder, ma, he yelled back as the neighbors leaned out the windows, whistling and gossiping in Yiddish. The kids on the stoops turned and laughed. 

No, she wasn’t a Jew. But she was his. She opened her mouth for him, met his tongue and braced her fingers around his neck. Spread her legs a bit when he found her nipple with his thumb. Breathed hot and felt tight as he thrust harder. Gasped when he licked the sweat from her forehead in another sticky, summer night. He heard his name mingling with Italian and he wanted to coax more words from her lips. 

And like that it’s not so cold in the forest. He settles in deeper into the foxhole and pulls the blanket tighter. He thinks of a warm girl wrapped around him and falls asleep.

_He remembers._

Nothing.

When they get back to the town they leave him alone. Lip did sit next to him before frowning and moving on. To talk with Winters and Nixon and Speirs and Roe about the.

The Camp. 

It has an audible capital letter. The Camp. He can hear them discuss typhus and delousing, food stores and monitored feeding. The prisoners, his people, are cattle, tattooed livestock trapped in the Camp. 

He bangs his head against the truck’s tire until he can’t hear anything. 

Until he feels nothing.

Not even the damp slip of nightfall. 

There’s the thump of someone settling next to him and the weight of a pack of cigarettes on his lap. Webster’s flicking his lighter, staying despite the oppressive silence. Joe’s mouth cracks open. 

Wir haben keine Hölle. German; his tongue can’t work the English. Jews don’t believe in a hell.

He takes a lit cigarette. No fire and damnation, Webster replies. His finger snaps off ash and he takes in a drag. 

No. We sit alone, our spirits forged and sins cleansed until we move to Heaven. Joe’s mouth is numb, but the smoke burns sweet. He lets out a breath that turns into a sob. He tries to hold it in, but he can’t. 

We have a hell now, Web. We finally got our hell. 

Tight arms rush around him and he’s weeping into Webster’s shoulder. Joe calls for his oma to come and take it away; she doesn’t answer. 

_He remembers._

Every face in the synagogue. The sweet voices as they rose, chanting. The call of the shofar. His oma. 

He pulled the trigger. 

Missed. 

Sisk didn’t.

The bitter silence remains during the walk back to their room and hangs between them. Web’s voice cuts the quiet with a simple question. Joe feels his mouth begin to answer, but he stops. 

No, he doesn’t feel better. The boiling anger he felt is gone, replaced with sadness and regret. He’s sick of it all, tired of bloodshed, the vibrations of a fired gun through his hand and forearm. 

I’m tired, David. 

I know, Joe. 

David reaches out. He does the same until their fingers are touching. He feels the cold mud of Haguenau, tastes the choke of exhaust as they drove out from the city. The hard press of their shoulders as they spoke, the damp filter of the cigarette they passed between one another. 

The knot in his belly uncoils. He holds tight. 

_He’ll remember._

The lake, warm and endless. 

They sit together, wine and schnapps tucked between them, feet dangling off the dock. 

Look at us, Joe. We were boys playing soldier.

Joe stares at his reflection. He’s older and harder, but he can make out the bits of who he was with every ripple and wave. He doesn’t know if anyone would recognize him, but he can see himself. 

David’s toe cuts the surface and his reflection scatters. They sit in silence and let the sun bake their skin. 

He can feel her words. 

If you fall, Joe.

He stands and stretches, takes in a deep breath. Smells alcohol and grass, warm skin and dirt. 

Someone will catch you. 

No, he’s done falling.

Joe leaps.


End file.
